Sense and Serendipity
by sweetsugarpea
Summary: Soul doesn't believe in things like fate or coincidences; they're just the kind of superstitious nonsense that he's been trying to escape his whole life. But when his life starts getting inexplicably tangled with that of a certain odd, pretty nurse with pigtails, he starts to wonder if things like luck and serendipity are real or if he just hit his head harder than he thought. (AU)
1. I've Just Seen a Face

_Author's Note: Okay so I just finished reading/watching Soul Eater and I can't handle how much I love Soul and Maka. It's gotten to the point where reading won't sate my need for SoMa, so I've decided to try my hand at writing them. Hopefully it'll turn out okay, lol._

_Just to make it clear, I don't own Soul Eater, nor do I own any songs/products/brands that may appear in this story._

* * *

**-Sense and Serendipity-**

_by sweetsugarpea_

**_I've Just Seen A Face_**

* * *

Since _when the fuck eve_r has listening to Black Star been a good idea? Answer: Never. It has never been a good idea to listen to Black Star, and this is something that Soul wishes to punch himself in the balls for ignoring. Because when he listens to Black Star, nine times out of ten he ends up right where his ragged ass is right now: perched on the edge of a too-stiff hospital bed being patched back together like a torn rag doll by a surgeon that looks like he had just stepped straight out of a cheap slasher film. He knows he hit his head pretty hard when he wiped out on the pavement, but regardless of his probable (read: Definite) concussion, he is like 1000% positive that it's still about two weeks until Halloween. This only makes the tally-like stitches twirling down his surgeon's face and arms all the more freakish.

Whatever was in that giant-ass needle that they stuck in his split scalp earlier had done the trick; the only thing he really feels as the doctor stitches his head back together is the slight tug of the thread and the warm trails of blood that make their way down the back of his neck. Ugh, gross. He hasn't even seen his reflection yet but he doesn't think he really needs to. Judging from the copious amount of blood and mud saturating his torn clothes, he has the feeling that he looks on par with the victim of a chainsaw murder. He's definitely gonna need a shower (if he can manage to move without wanting to die) or at the very least a breath mint. The only thing he can taste is dirt and pennies and it's making him nauseous. Actually, it's probably a pretty even mix of swallowing gravel and the disgustingly thick scent of formaldehyde that hangs around Stitches back there. Either way he hopes there's a bucket close by or he's gonna be pissing off some poor sap of a janitor in the very immediate future.

Soul can feel tweezers digging into his scalp, the searing pain of the sharp metal prongs digging into his skin dulled to unpleasant pinches as Stitches continues to pick pieces of imbedded gravel out of his head. Each pinch of the surgical tweezers is followed by a rolling wave of nausea, and he sluggishly slaps a hand to his mouth to keep from throwing up the contents of his stomach all over his lap. He holds up a hand to signal for Dr. Ragdoll to stop his creepy mumbling so he can catch his breath and hopefully, his lunch.

"Gimme 'm minute," He slurs, face blanching as he inhales more of the sickening chemicals. God, he hates hospitals. Dr. Stitches peers at him curiously from behind the bed, his large coke-bottle glasses glinting under the fluorescent lighting of the room. Ugh, it's too bright in here. It's making his head throb. The doctor hums thoughtfully.

"My, you're looking a little green. Feeling alright?"

The fuck kind of question is that? He crashed his poor bike and left about a thirty-foot skid mark on the road _with his head that's now currently being stitched back together like a fucking **needlepoint pillow**._ Soul opens his mouth to comment on the overwhelming stupidity of this question, but quickly realizes that opening his mouth is a very, very poor decision, almost as bad as listening to Black Star, because the moment his lips part he feels the familiar burn of bile racing up his esophagus. He tugs away painfully from the stitching-in-progress to lean over the bedside and retch until his stomach cramps. Surprisingly though someone mercifully shoves a rubbish barrel beneath him so that the cleaning crew won't have a personal vendetta.

When he's done puking his guts out he feels about 30% better, but now his stomach hurts and all he tastes is bile. Regardless, he isn't covered in puke and neither is the floor, and for that he's grateful for whoever was brave enough to put themselves in the line of fire. He's terribly dizzy as he looks up, the crisp white of the room disorienting in the bright fluorescent lighting. Luckily his eyes focus on a pair of lilac scrubs and peridot green eyes, and he notes that these must belong to his puke-bucket champion. She's tiny, probably a good seven or eight inches shorter than him if he were standing (cool guy slouch not included) with a petite figure that makes her bright scrubs practically swim on her. Her ashy blonde hair is pulled into two low pigtails, and she has a sympathetic smile on her heart-shaped face.

"Feeling better?" She questions. Her voice is much more pleasant than the drone of Stitches McGee with a bell-like sound that rings warmly in his ears. He's still catching his breath after emptying his stomach, so he just nods weakly while trying to focus on taking deep, even breaths, even if the smell in the air makes his stomach churn with aftershocks. She gives a sympathetic smile as she holds out the bucket to him, which he takes gratefully to plop in his lap for the inevitable second wave. "Try closing your eyes and taking deep breaths."

He nods again even if she's already reiterating what he's trying to do, but his eyes slide shut because hey, that's not a bad idea. With his eyes closed he doesn't have to struggle to focus them and the intense throbbing of his building migraine stalls a bit. With the removal of one sensory overload, Soul is able to hear Stitches resume his creepy-ass mumbling beneath his breath and he becomes overly aware of the sensation of a needle sinking into his scalp. He takes a breath that's completely formaldehyde and he clutches his bucket closer. He feels a hand pat his shoulder and at first he thinks it's the creeper surgeon but the hand weighs too lightly to belong to such an admittedly well-built man. He assumes it's Nurse Pigtails, and when he cracks a vermillion eye open, his suspicions are proven correct.

"How did this happen?" She asks gently, trying as if to distract him from the unpleasant feeling of having his raw flesh tugged back together by needles and thread. "Can you remember at all?"

"M'bike," He grumbles, watching as her light green eyes flicker to his monitors when his blood pressure goes up. Oh, his bike. His poor, poor baby, scraped up and dented and God only knows what else and how expensive it will be to piece her back together. Soul wants to whimper at the thought, but another wave of nausea overtakes him so he groans instead. "Turned too fast. Slid. Hit m'head." His mouth won't work. He feels drunk.

"You hit your head?" She says, alarmed. She turns to Stitches as if she's just realizing what he's doing back there although Soul thinks it's pretty obvious. When she realizes that that he's not in fact braiding his matted mess of white hair, she immediately holds up her finger to his face and the sensation of his eyes forcefully crossing to focus on it makes him whine. His head feels like it's being split back open, and he releases his death grip on his bucket to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Can you follow my finger?"

"Don't bother, I can tell he's got a Grade 3 just from observing him." Stitches drawls, tugging the string a little tighter. He kind of wants to tell him that he's not a freaking patchwork quilt and to take it easy, but he feels like he's been pushing his luck just by opening his mouth to talk to Pigtails. He hears her hum as well, but her voice sounds more like the steady ring of a stricken piano key, where as his sounds like a buzzer. Soul instantly has a preference. Stitches decides to continue for him. "Driving a motorcycle at around 45 miles per hour in a residential area, spun out and ended up skidding on his head across the pavement."

"No helmet?!"

"No helmet."

Soul doesn't have to open his eyes to feel the burn of her disapproving stare. "You could have died!"

"Didn't," He manages. She frowns as she pulls a syringe filled with something from her pocket and injects it into the tube in his IV bag. After a few minutes he feels a familiar tingle of painkillers creeping up his arm. He also hears the snip of scissors after a finalizing tug that Dr. Ragdoll announces as the final batch of stitches. He turns to her and asks her to jot down his vitals on his chart when the beeper on his belt chirps with summons.

"Yes, Dr. Stein." Stein? Is she for real? Holy shit, do they get into the holidays around this place. Thankfully though Stein (Stitches) walks away before the chimes of his beeper threaten to undo his very sanity. What he wouldn't do for some aspirin, and he absently wonders if morphine is just as effective on headaches as it is on gaping wounds. Kind of wishes that she'd give him another shot of it because the numb, tingly feeling that spreads through his body is a nice alternative to the aches and pains that he knows await him in the upcoming hours.

For a little while there's only the sound of her pen scratching away at her clipboard, and Soul starts thinking of a melody that encompasses both her rhythmic writing and the steady beat of the EKG machine before she ruins it by opening her mouth, no doubt to lecture him on just exactly why he's a complete dipshit.

"You should always wear a helmet when you ride a motorcycle." She says sternly, and bingo! He's just won a lecture that he is in absolutely no mood to listen to. "You're very lucky that this only resulted in some stitches and a concussion."

A couple stitches? He had half the skin on his forearm sewn back on, and his head just got pieced back together like Humpty Dumpty. Not to mention he's pretty sure that he's got no skin left on his knees either. Fuck, those are gonna sting. As if reading his mind though, she continues. "Believe it or not, this is a much preferred outcome compared to some of our other similar cases. A lot of them die."

Soul still doesn't have enough of a stomach to sass her so he just mock salutes and grumbles, "Do m' best to get one for next time." She seems complacent with his half-slurred answer, and apparently decides that fully lecturing him right after he'd just knocked half his screws loose seems to be a moot point. Her frown slowly turns up into another smile that makes his gut flutter, but somehow it's different from the nausea and not entirely unpleasant.

The nurse walks to the white board (again with the white. Too much freaking white; this place needs a decorator) and pulls out a marker to scrawl something down on it. She caps it again and turns to him with her not-nausea producing grin. "Alright then, I'll leave you alone to rest. If you need anything, just hit the call button on the side of your bed."

Soul doesn't hear much of anything else she says because he's way too focused on the steady beeping of the EKG and the tingling in his arm. He cracks his eyes open to glance at her silhouette in the doorway of his room, because all of this white is making him dizzy and he really needs some sort of focal point for his brain to use as a reference.

"We'll pull up your medical records and call one of your emergency contacts to come pick you up. So for now just take a rest, okay?" She gives him a warm smile, one that somehow seems brighter than the whitewashed walls and shitty hospital lights. He doesn't try to figure out how a smile has the ability to light up a room because teeth aren't inherently luminous and his head hurts too much right now for shit like physics and potentially drug-induced attraction. "I just wrote my name down on your board, so all you have to do is call for me."

Soul nods weakly as he glances at the whiteboard on the wall directly in front of his bed. He absently focuses on the bright purple name scribbled across it in neat, girly cursive. It's the only color in the room aside from her purple scrubs and green, green eyes, so he keeps his eyes fixated on it as he drifts off to sleep. Whatever it is that she had injected into his IV has already started to buzz through his veins, pulling at his eyelids and while he's way too out of it to properly make out whatever the pretty blonde's name was, Soul is able to decipher the first letter before he blacks out completely: _M_.


	2. I Shot the Sheriff

_Author's note: Wow, thank you guys so much for all of the reviews and follows! You guys are awesome! And like before, I still don't own Soul Eater or any songs/brands/etc. that show up in this story._

* * *

**-Sense and Serendipity-**

_by sweetsugarpea_

_**I Shot the Sheriff**_

* * *

By the time Soul regains consciousness the pretty blonde nurse's purple script has been wiped clean from his board and replaced by another name written in a comparatively duller blue. His back is stiff and he has to piss but he _really _isn't looking forward to moving after a couple hours of lying on a mattress that Soul considers to be only a half-step up from plywood. Eh, at least all the needles and shit were taken out while he was snoozing so he now has the freedom to move around. Not that he would really even want to, because there are aches and pains in muscles he didn't even know he had that make him feel like an 80 year old man. He does an awkward shimmy to sit upright on the bed and winces at the immediate protest of his sore muscles.

English is still a foreign language for the moment as another nurse (another pretty girl, this time with interesting pink hair but completely _un-_interesting, not shiny teeth) pops her head in and chirps something to him about a visitor that goes in one ear and out the other. He gathers his wits about him enough to nod to her before he sluggishly makes his way to the tiny bathroom. It takes him about a minute to undo his belt and another three just to sit his ass down on the seat because as weird as he feels sitting down to take a piss, he doesn't have the energy to even stand much less feel awkward about it. The meds may have worn off as far as keeping the sharp pains at bay but they're still slinking through his blood and making his limbs as useful as cooked noodles while he white-knuckles the handicap railings.

While the relief of no longer having to pee is nice, it is short-lived when the time comes to hoist himself back up to redo his pants. It's a production with a lot of scrambling to pull himself up and off the toilet—failing miserably— and if this is how it's going to be getting up from chairs the entire time that he's recovering he's just gonna have to channel his inner equine and stand, because this is just fucking ridiculous. Mercifully he manages to get himself up and his dick back in his boxers before the door to the bathroom crashes open without so much as a knock. He turns to see a young man with electric blue hair leaning nonchalantly on the doorframe, sucking loudly on the straw of a large Slurpee. He looks Soul over with a quirked brow and a shit-eating grin before he lets out a low whistle.

"Wooow. You look like _shit_, dude."

Soul would kick him if the thought of lifting his leg higher than it takes to scuff his heels against the ground didn't make him want to whimper. He settles instead for snarling as he aggressively zips up his fly. "Really? I thought I pulled off the whole blood-and-guts thing well." He snarks before flipping on the water in the sink, examining the dark purple bags beneath his eyes in the mirror as he tries to scrub dried blood and dirt from beneath his fingernails. Okay, so maybe he looks like he just came off of a coke binge after barely escaping a murder, but still! It's that dipshit's fault that he's even in here in the first place. Sadly though he can't be blamed for _everything,_ because in the end Soul is still a big boy and willingly broke his own cardinal rule of self-preservation: _Never fucking listen to Black Star._

Black Star shrugs, slurping at his slushy as noisily as possible because this is Black Star and mindfulness of others has never really been his thing. Soul can see passersby in the hallway shooting dirty looks at the pair of them as his friend continues to talk at the decibel count of a fighter jet regardless of the fact that according to the clock on the wall, it is still far too early in the morning to be functioning as an actual human being and some people on this floor might actually need their sleep. He slaps a hand on Soul's shoulder in a friendly manner, and it's everything he has to not shriek like a girl when pain explodes at the impact. For such a little shit, Black Star has muscles to rival most juicehead bodybuilders.

"What are you even here for anyway?" He says through clenched teeth, silently reeling from his friend's _'friendly clap on the shoulder'_. "I thought you went home after I was admitted."

"I did. They called me back to pick you up."

"The fuck did they call _you_ for?"

"I'm the one who brought you in and since you're such an antisocial prick and didn't have any contacts listed in your file, they took my info."

Soul swears and vows to find some more friends, preferably ones who know the proper volume to speak in at five-thirty in the morning. Black Star cackles and takes another swig of his slurpee before picking up Soul's shredded leather jacket from the chair in the corner of the room. He tosses it over his shoulder with a grin. "Oh stop bitching. You're happy to see my magnificent face and you know it."

"I'd be happier if I could punch it."

"Harsh, dude. Not my fault you suck at drifting."

Soul shoots him a look before hobbling towards the door, not waiting for Black Star to catch up. He is stopped at the nurse's station to sign paperwork (and get Star's name the fuck off his contact list) before being presented with a ten-page stack of how to care for concussed patients and a prescription for some top-notch painkillers, courtesy of Dr. Stitches. He shoves this at Black Star when he catches up. As they exit the doors of the hospital into the crisp autumn morning, Soul wishes absently that his jacket wasn't totally wrecked because the air still holds a distinct chill and it makes an unpleasant shiver run down his spine.

"Oxycodone? Damn, they're giving you the good stuff." Soul snatches the piece of paper from his friend, grumbling about the fact that pharmacies won't open for another three hours at least.

"Just tell me where you parked. I want to go home and sleep."

"Probably wanna shower first. You reek."

Okay, well Soul won't argue there. He looks like he's about ten years overdue for a shower and smells like he bathed in mud and gasoline, and the taste in his mouth is reminiscent of that time he almost choked on a penny when he was three. Soul silently wishes for a pack of gum as he spots Black Star's gaudy custom blue '87 Chevy Impala double-parked up ahead. He swings the door open and slides into the cracked leather passenger seat with a hiss. Bending and the like are killer on his sore abs, and Soul is grateful that he doesn't live far enough away to allow his muscles to lock up in the low seat. Black Star slips into the driver's seat and flips the key, earning a purr from the engine. "Sounds sexy as hell, right?" He grins. "Spent all night tuning her up."

"You were up all night?" Soul asks, somewhat surprised. Black Star shrugs, not looking him in the eye as he turns over his shoulder to pull out of the lot, narrowly avoiding colliding with the bumper of the hybrid parked in the row behind them. "Why didn't you go to bed? Your shift at the garage starts in like three hours."

"Tried to, but I kept thinking of your stupid ass sliding across the pavement like some sort of fucked up Slip'n'Slide. Thought you were dead." He mumbles, and he says it with such a tone of genuine (if not masked) worry that Soul forgives him a little bit for talking him into practicing his drifting on that god awful turn at the end of his street. He tries to think back to the incident but the memories are fuzzy and unhelpful. The last thing Soul can coherently remember is dinner at Star's and a couple of games of Call of Duty after putting Angela to bed. At the thought of his perky little niece, Soul turns to his best friend.

"What did you do with Angela? Is she home alone?"

"Fuck no, what kind of guardian do you take me for?" Black Star scoffs, mildly offended. "I called Nygus to pick her up before the ambulance took you to the hospital. Don't you remember seeing her before we left?"

Not even a bit. Combined with his memory recall and the steadily growing throb behind his eyelids, Soul may as well have been completely shitfaced last night. He'd get about the same results, and at least then he could ease his symptoms away with a gallon of water and a good night's sleep. "Nope. I can only remember dinner and getting on my bike, then Doctor Creeper patching my head back together in the hospital room. Other than that, it's like I blacked out."

"Well you did seem pretty fucked up after you crashed. But holy shit though, you should _see_ the blood marks you left on the street! It's like something out of CSI, it's _sick_!"

"Glad to know my head trauma amuses you."

"_Pssh_. That's why I keep you around, peasant."

Soul rolls his eyes but the effort makes his head hurt, and it's like all of a sudden the dim glow of streetlights and daybreak on the horizon are burning his retinas. He closes his eyes and groans, turning away from the windshield to stare at the passing shapes on the street until that sight too makes him sick. Back in the hospital he longed for colors aside from white and cream and off-white, but now that he's out and about in the real world again it's as if his brain decides to go on strike. He suddenly longs for whiteness and lilac scrubs but Soul settles for covering his eyes with his scraped-up hands. "This concussion thing sucks." He grumbles when Black Star questions his state with another forceful jab of his elbow. "Feels like I'm holding my head together with my hands."

"Well cracking your head open like an egg'll do that to you."

Soul has enough energy to flip Black Star the bird as the blue-haired wonder pulls into his apartment complex's parking lot. Soul manages to wiggle himself out of the seat awkwardly to keep from irritating his already protesting wounds and his efforts reward him with a searing pain that makes his eyes sting with tears when he manages to crack his head on the jamb of the car's door. Black Star laughs and informs him that, that _would_ be just his freaking luck, to which Soul reminds him that there's no such thing as luck, just stupid people who listen to their even stupider friends and suffer the unfortunate consequences that come along with doing so.

"Whatever dude," Black Star cackles while they climb the four staircases it takes to get to Soul's apartment. "I'm still gonna get you a gerbil leg or something. You're like a fucking jinx."

"You mean a rabbit's foot?" Soul offers as he digs through his tattered jacket for his house key. Swears loudly when he realizes that there's a conveniently key-sized hole in the pocket. Punches Black Star in his stupid fucking head when he laughs at him for his shitty luck which, much like his god damned house key, _he does not fucking have_. Black Star swears even louder than Soul does at the frustrated assault to his cranium but he can't really bring himself to care when he's being kept from his bed. He peers in through the window and sees the edge of it through his open bedroom door and the barrier of his locked front door makes his weariness feel even more prominent.

"I told you, man! Fucking jinx!" Black Star guffaws, clapping him on the shoulder again because quite obviously Soul is not in enough visible pain. "Let's just go back to my house for now, it's too early to call a locksmith."

Soul's face looks like he's been sucking on lemons for the past seven hours as the two trudge back downstairs, his migraine throbbing with every step of his tired feet. He mourns the thought of his sweet, sweet bed and shower that rest not a mere thirty feet away and how he has to settle for the lumpy couch in Black Star's living room and the bathtub filled with Barbie dolls and bubblegum scented Dora body wash. He momentarily debates breaking into his own home using his best friend's thick skull as a battering ram as he struggles to get back into the car but decides against it at the idea of how expensive his hospital bill alone is already going to be. Soul covers his mouth again to hold down the puke that's racing up his throat at the mere thought of it and Black Star merely leans over to roll down his window for him with the calm reply that if he barfs on the upholstery, he's gonna make him eat it.

* * *

"Pffft. What kind of pansy shit is this? _'Cocooning'_?" Black Star wheezes from his recliner, flipping through the thick packet of instructions on how to care for a concussion. Soul shoots him a glare from beneath the throw pillow he has his head buried under. "This makes you sound like you're gonna come out of this thing looking like a freaking _butterfly_." He holds up his hands and flaps them around like makeshift wings. "Pretty soon you'll be flying around shooting glitter from your ass!"

"What is the first rule on that sheet, Star?" Soul hisses. His head is throbbing so badly that his vision is spotting and while he's far from a doctor, he knows that's probably not a good thing. "_No loud noises._ So kindly _shut your **fucking face**."_

"It also says no TV, no videogames, no reading, exercising…What are you supposed to do for two weeks? Forget the brain swelling crap, I'd die from just the _boredom_."

"It's to _'minimize stimulation so the brain can heal'_." Soul recites the introduction of the pamphlet with air quotes as he turns over to bury his face deeper in between the couch cushions and figure out why he's hanging around Black Star, the human embodiment of cacophony, if he is to avoid any sort of stimulation. Unpleasant, hazy memories of key-sized pocket holes and blue-haired battering rams flicker through his mind and darken his already sour mood. He tugs one of the blankets he had been given up higher to tuck around his shoulders. "Now shut up and let me cocoon, you dick."

"Fine, whatever. I gotta get Angela from Nygus before work anyway."

"Why, can't Nygus take her? She and Sid live like two minutes from her school."

"Nah man, I wanna take her. She's my responsibility."

Soul is silent for a moment before he deadpans beneath a worn green throw pillow, "Her teacher is hot, isn't she?"

"Gave my eyes third degree burns just from lookin'."

Black Star snickers as he hears Soul's exasperated sigh from beneath the throw pillows and waves his hand in a dismissive manner. He pockets his cellphone and keys as he heads towards the front door. "I'll see you later. Get some rest and for fuck's sake, take a shower before you make my couch smell like shit."

Soul sticks his hand out from beneath his nest of blankets and flips him off again, making Black Star snort before shutting the door. The sound of the lock and bolt sliding into place is comforting, allowing him to enjoy the fact that while for the moment he is deprived of his own bed, he still has the house to himself for the next eight hours. The throbbing in his head has dulled to an almost ignorable ache thanks to the handful of ibuprofen Black Star had given him to hold him over until he's able to grab Soul's prescription for him after work, and the couch's old springs have finally started to ease under his weight to allow for prime butt-groove making. Soul sighs and snuggles down into the nest of old cushions and blankets as he listens to the quiet creaks of the house settling and allows his heavy eyelids to slide shut for some long-awaited rest. Later on he blames his dream's color scheme of purple and green on an accidental overdose of acetaminophen.

* * *

For the sake of whoever the fuck may be out there, Soul prays that he's merely hallucinating the sound of a fist rapping loudly on the front door. He burrows down deeper into his little cocoon of fleece and yarn. _Go away_! How's a guy supposed to turn into a freaking butterfly or whatever if people keep waking him up? But the knocking persists and Soul can hear it perfectly despite the fact that his head is buried like an ostrich in the Narnia between the couch cushions. Irritable and in pain, Soul rolls himself off of the couch and onto the floor where he somehow struggles back to his feet like a fawn learning to walk and all but stumbles to the front door.

"**_What—_**" Soul snaps as he wrenches open the door. His carmine eyes lock with an unpleasantly familiar mop of red hair and disgruntled aqua irises. He practically collapses against the door with an agitated groan. "Oh, not **_you_**_._ Shouldn't you be off hitting on that chick at the doughnut shop or something?"

Deputy Chief of Police Spirit Albarn scowls down at the young man draped against the door. He's not dressed in the usual dark blue uniform that Soul is accustomed to seeing him in but rather in a black blazer and slacks, polished badge hanging at his hip. He sucks on his teeth, taking in Soul's disheveled appearance. "What happened to you, brat? You look like shit."

"Thanks. Now can we make this quick? I gotta get back to my cocoon."

"Your _what_?"

"Urgh, nevermind. Just what the hell do you want, anyway?"

Spirit hooks a thumb in his belt, peering into the house around Soul. His eyes narrow when his blue gaze returns to Soul's cut-up face. "I got a report that there was a motor vehicle accident and that the EMT was dispatched to this address. Since you and the other brat are still on probation for street racing, I came to investigate. Speaking of which, where is he?"

"Work. He left like two hours ago." Soul refrains from smashing his forehead against the hardwood door on the inkling that it may not pan out well for his concussion. Regardless of this decision, he can feel his headache beginning to resurface with a vengeance. "Don't you have anything better to do? I mean you just got promoted or whatever didn't you? Why are you still snooping around me and Black Star?"

"We're a little short-handed at the precinct right now, what can I say? And besides, I've known Black Star for years. As much as the kid annoys me, he and my daughter were very close growing up so as a favor to her I keep an extra eye out for him. As for _you _though," Spirit sneers, "I just get a kick out of seeing punks like you squirm."

Soul's frown deepens and he feels the headache begin to travel behind his eyes. "Right, that Mama girl. It still baffles me how any woman would willingly reproduce with a tool like you."

Spirit's look becomes venomous. "Watch it, octopus head. I could make your life a whole lot harder than it has to be. And her name is _Maka_. She's just like her mama: beautiful and sweet and smart—"

"Not all too smart if she married _you_."

Spirit none-too-subtly stomps on Soul's foot, making him squawk in pain. "My Maka is brilliant. Completely out of the league of some snot-nosed delinquent like yourself."

Soul manages a smirk despite the fact that his big toe, just like the rest of him, is now throbbing with pain. "Please, like I'd wanna date someone you spawned anyway."

"You'd _wish._ Luckily my precious angel is too smart to ever date a motorcycle-riding cretin like you." Spirit scoffs before his gaze becomes more scrutinizing, as if he just remembers why he's here in the first place. Soul feels his stomach drop when the man's gaze falls to the empty driveway. "Speaking of motorcycles, where's that orange monstrosity of yours?"

Soul grimaces as Spirit turns back to him. Can't he just go back to his blanket cocoon? He'd much rather that than look at the almost gleeful grin that appears on Spirit's face. "Oh, so that crash was _you!_ Well that explains the Halloween getup." Spirit gestures to the tattered clothing that Soul still dons. "The report said it was a motorcycle going about 45 before it spun out. Were you at least wearing a helmet?"

"Cool guys don't wear helmets." Soul says as he watches Spirit pull out a ticket pad from his back pocket. His migraine instantly intensifies three-fold.

"Well here's a get-well present for you, _cool guy_." Spirit says as he scribbles down the infractions on the paper. "One ticket for speeding in a residential area, and another for a helmet infraction." When he finishes these he shoves them roughly into Soul's chest before turning on his heel and marching back down the porch steps towards his parked car.

"Tell the other brat that I'll be back for his statement later for the report." Spirit calls over his shoulder. "Oh, and Evans!"

Soul turns his head away from smashing it against the door long enough to see Spirit raise a hand in farewell. He grunts in acknowledgement, refraining from shouting obscenities at the second-in-command of the Death City PD and the bane of his personal existence.

"Go take a bath. You smell like shit."

Soul allows his self-control to falter enough to flip Spirit the bird before slamming the door as hard as he possibly can.


	3. You Got Me Running on Sunshine

_Author's note: Oh my gosh, I can't even believe all of the feedback I've gotten for this story! Thank you so, so, so much to everyone who has reviewed, watched, favorited, and followed! I was never expecting so much attention, especially for my first fanfic! I'm also very sorry for taking so long to update this chapter. Hopefully now I can return to the plan of weekly updates. Also, I don't own anything for this story, including the lyrics to "Running on Sunshine" by Jesus Jackson, "I Shot The Sheriff" by Bob Marley, "I've Just Seen a Face" by The Beatles, Slurpees (7-11), or, you know, Soul Eater._

* * *

**-Sense and Serendipity-**

_by sweetsugarpea_

_**You Got Me Running on Sunshine**_

* * *

Is it healthy to fantasize about your bed? Probably not. Then again resident surgical intern Maka Albarn really couldn't care less if it was healthy or not because after having endured a grueling twenty-eight hour shift she is hightailing it out of the ER to go blissfully reunite with her dearly missed mattress. Sure, she's been able to scrape by here and there with the occasional twenty-minute nap in the staff room, but lumpy communal cots are nothing compared to the squishy heaven that awaits her at home. Ah, yes: a nice, boiling hot shower to wash away the grime and sickness from her skin before crawling into bed to sleep for the next three years sounds divine.

She stalks down the hallways of Death City General Hospital with all the prowess of a lion on the hunt in search of the coffee pot by the nurse's station. She hasn't had an ounce of shuteye going on seventeen hours now, and if she doesn't get caffeine in her system pronto there is going to be a serious problem with her mental stability. Her exhausted senses pick up the telltale scent of a freshly brewed pot of coffee and Maka all but floats down the hallway towards the promise of stained teeth and jittery alertness. As she thought, a fresh batch of coffee is sitting steaming in the pot on the counter and she gleefully pours herself a cup. Maka takes a long chug of it, straight and black, sighing happily at the burn in her throat.

"Long shift?"

Maka turns to her pink-haired coworker with a tired nod. "I hate clinic duty. It's been nothing but idiots and college kids all night. You know, I never believed that rumor that ERs get swarmed on the full moon until I started working here." Kim winces, chuckling.

"Ooh, _ouch_. But hey, at least you got to stare at hot coeds all night." She jokes. Maka grins into her second sip as she goes through the charts awaiting her at the station as Kim continues to ramble on, on all of the ER's gossip. "Speaking of hotties, have you seen the guy in exam room 3?" A brief thought flutters through her mind of a head of white hair as she gulps down another mouthful of scalding hot Columbian blend. "Kind of worse for wear, but I bet he cleans up real nice."

"Is he the one that got in that motorcycle accident?"

"Oh, is that what happened? I mean, he's _covered_ in blood, but I didn't know what to make of it."

"Cranial laceration. The idiot wasn't wearing a helmet."

"Well idiot or no, he's a grade-A _stud_."

Maka rolls her eyes as she refills her cup. "Kim, your taste in men never ceases to amaze me." She grins as she pours in a gratuitous amount of sugar and creamer. "Speaking of which, aren't you and Ox scheduled to observe an acromioplasty today?" Her fellow surgical intern makes a disgusted face at the mention of their colleague.

"Ugh, don't remind me." Kim gags. "I was _supposed_ to be observing a rhinoplasty that Dr. Gorgon was doing, but for whatever reason it got rescheduled so now I'm stuck with _Ford_ watching Dr. Stein chisel away at some old guy's shoulder blade." The girl pouts in the same fashion as a toddler denied a piece of candy. Maka can sympathize with Kim's frustration, however, because this was going to be the aspiring plastic surgeon's first actual sit-in on a cosmetic procedure. And while Maka will gratefully jump at any real chance to be in the operating room, being continuously denied the ability to sit in on a neurological procedure has been steadily driving her mad.

Kim's aggravation melts away from her made-up face when the two are approached by a short but built individual who loudly demands where his friend is. At the sight of his outrageous blue hair Maka clicks her tongue and returns to nursing her cup of coffee. Kim cheerfully asks him to fill out forms while she goes to inform the patient of his arrival. Maka, meanwhile, tries her best to ignore him as she flips through charts for last-minute details before she heads home.

While she usually takes pride in her bedside manner, it's currently almost five-thirty in the morning and Maka is not confident in her self-control. Everything the man does grates on her nerves. He sets his extra large slurpee on the counter as he scribbles away at the contact sheets Kim had given him. Even a supposed quiet action as dragging a pen across paper, this man somehow manages to do at a blaring volume. When he has a question, he barks it at her as if she is standing down the hall and not three feet from him. In his defense though, with the way she's actively trying to ignore him and his jet-engine voice, his Neanderthal mind could mistake her for hard of hearing.

Her eye twitches. It is taking an almost inhuman amount of restraint for Maka to not crush her cup of coffee in her fist.

Mercifully Kim returns and informs the buffoon that his friend is in room three. As the man (finally, thank _God_) walks away, Maka snorts loudly.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, it just figures that Crash has a friend like that."

"'_Crash'_? You mean hot motorcycle guy?"

"Sure, if you think head trauma's hot."

Kim giggles. "Not particularly, but I know _you_ do. Potential brain surgery? I'm surprised you're not drooling all over him." Maka elbows her lightly as she gathers her files. "Hey, just saying. It's about time you got laid."

"Now you just sound like Blair."

"I could only hope. That woman is a sex goddess. Speaking of which, nice scrubs."

Maka groans and picks at the ill-fitting clothes with her fingers. "Urgh, don't even say it. I had some drunk kid throw up on me earlier while Blair and I were setting his arm. She lent them to me, as if I need a reminder of how subpar my chest is." The shapely nurse's top is as flattering on her lithe frame as a potato sack. Even the pants had to be double-knotted and cuffed at the bottom to ensure that they wouldn't fall down Maka's thinner hips.

"Oh don't even start with that." Kim scoffs. "Compared to her boobs, all of our chests are subpar. For what it's worth though, you've definitely got a nicer ass."

"You should be a motivational speaker, Kim." Maka's lips quirk upwards before taking another sip from her half-crushed Styrofoam cup.

"I really should. With the way my residency is going, it'll be a good backup career." Kim jokes. "Now get out of here before you drink all my coffee."

Maka smiles and bids the emerald-eyed beauty goodbye before making her way to the locker room to gather her belongings. She exits the hospital for the first time in over a day and breathes in the crisp morning air appreciatively. The air in the hospital seems stale in comparison to the sharp smell of falling leaves. She smiles at the light mist her breath creates on the way to her car. Fall has always been her favorite season, and as soon as she regains consciousness after her impeding hibernation there is a pumpkin spice latte at Deathbucks that has her name on it.

She digs in her (pathetic excuse for a) purse for the keys to her car. It's nothing flashy, but Maka is very proud of the little silver hybrid. Not including rent for the apartment she shares with Tsubaki, the down payment on her 2010 Toyota Prius was the first purchase she made with her paycheck from her residency. Yes sir, gone were the days of being a broke med student riding around in a junk heap of a car. Now, she can proudly say that she is a broke surgical intern who rode around with dignity. She slides into the car and sighs, happy to be out and free and _actually alone _for the first time in what feels like half of her life. After twenty-eight hours of machines and pagers and voices and _noise_, the silence of her car is so sweet she could actually cry from relief.

This tranquil moment is all but savagely torn from her exhausted fingertips by the shrill voice of the blue-haired idiot and his equally stupid, partially crippled friend bickering on their way through the parking lot. If mutilating the both of them didn't create more work for her, Maka would gut the slushy-chugging monkey like the large-mouthed bass he is. She abruptly abandons her moment of Zen in favor of glaring red-hot daggers at them.

"Just tell me where you parked," Crash all but begs of the monkey. "I want to go home and sleep."

You and her both, buddy.

After informing Crash that he reeks, the blue-haired midget slides into the driver's side seat of the gaudy double-parked car and slams his door so loudly that it makes Maka grate her teeth. She jams her key into the ignition with way more force than is necessary and readies herself to pull out but is stopped when Monkey screeches out of his parking spot and nearly collides with the front end of her car. She slams hard on the brakes, nerves too shot to even lay on her horn to tell him to _watch where the hell he's fucking driving, you idiotic primate!_ Her recovery time is horrendous from sleep deprivation and copious amounts of caffeine, and she has to settle for a couple deep breaths and a loud screech of irritation at the world and all of the (unfortunately) opposable-thumbed, blue-haired, no-helmet-wearing morons who inhabit it.

* * *

Tsubaki Nakatsukasa has always been an early riser. Since her childhood in Japan, she would awaken with the first rays of light to assist her father and elder brother in chores around her family's dojo, but not before she would join them in early-morning meditation. Her father stressed the importance of having a sound mind before body, and the habit of starting her day with the tranquil act remained even into her adulthood. The quiet of the mornings and the warmth of the early sun's light coupled with the pleasant sense of nostalgia made this a treasured time in her routine.

It is during this treasured time that Maka comes clamoring into the apartment, slamming the door before she all but melts to the floor against it. Tsubaki does not open her eyes or remove herself from her spot on the bay window, merely humming in acknowledgement of her friend's ire. She hears the sound of Maka's sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floors before the telltale thud of the surgeon collapsing on their couch. Sure enough a moment later she hears the jingle of keys hitting the glass of the coffee table, the thumps of sneakers being toed off, and a long and exasperated sigh muffled by a decorative throw pillow. Tsubaki listens and waits patiently for her roommate to finish her own morning routine.

The menace in Maka's voice is downplayed by the pillow smothering her face. "I hate people."

"Good morning to you too, Maka-chan."

Maka turns her head away from the pillow so Tsubaki can more accurately hear her unabashed hatred of the human populace, namely the percentage of it that includes idiotic twenty-somethings and their baffling love of dangerous motor vehicles, alcoholic beverages, and horrifically poor decision-making. "I'm serious. I hate people. I hate them. All they do is go off and party and get drunk and puke on people and split their heads open because they're too dumb to wear helmets and I hate them."

Tsubaki opens her serene navy eyes, smiling sympathetically at her exhausted best friend. "I have a feeling that you had a hard time at work." She ventures, long legs carrying her to the kitchen to make Maka a cup of coffee and herself a cup of tea. She hears Maka's grunt from their kitchenette as she digs through their cupboards for a mug.

"Horrible. I didn't even get to scrub in." She whines.

Tsubaki hums as she flicks on the Keurig. She pops in a pumpkin-flavored blend; the only flavor strong enough to mask the taste of decaf from Maka's seasoned tastebuds. She knows her roommate, and the absolute last thing she needs is more caffeine. "That must be very tough for you. I know how much you love being in surgery."

Maka shuffles so that she's on her back, staring up at the ceiling fan that lazily spins overhead. "I don't love it, I _need_ it. Tsubaki, I was born to do this job, and they're not letting me do it! When I'm actually allowed in, it's always the easy stuff like appendectomies. Other than that, all they have me doing is running around like a newbie fresh out of school putting in IVs and checking charts and holding puke buckets! It's so – so – " She holds up her hands and throttles the air, mashing her hands together in a furious attempt at representing her frustration. "It _sucks_!"

"It must." Tsubaki says sweetly as she sits on the small portion of the couch not being taken up by Maka's sprawling form. She sets the mug of freshly brewed coffee on the table beside her roommate's head before taking a careful sip of her own brewing drink. The two sit in relative silence for a few minutes before Tsubaki deems it acceptable to continue. "I'm surprised you haven't been asked to join surgeries more often. Hasn't Doctor Stein said that you're his top attendee?"

A flash of smug pride travels across the blonde's face at this reminder. "He did. He even said it in front of Ox." She smirks.

"So I wonder why he hasn't been allowing you into more advanced surgeries."

"Because he hates me."

"I don't believe that."

"I do. He hates me and I'm never going to get to operate on a brain and I'm going to be a lowly intern for eternity, doomed to a fate of fetching coffee and scrubbing bed pans."

Tsubaki smiles and shakes her head at Maka's bleak outlook. "Don't say that. I'm sure that Doctor Stein is simply testing your patience. Isn't that a very important characteristic of all good neurosurgeons?"

Maka pouts childishly as she sits up and reaches for her mug of piping hot coffee. She takes a long sip and sighs contentedly. Pumpkin, her favorite! The bitter taste of her drug of choice allows her to regain some semblance of maturity. "I guess, but it's still annoying. I mean, I work my butt off and for what? Clinic duty. Getting thrown up on by some drunk, rowdy college kid while I fix his stupid broken arm. Getting _almost_ thrown up on by a potentially drunk but definitely concussed moron with a blue-haired monkey that talks as loud as a freight train." She gestures to her unusually cheery scrubs. Actually, she's starting to see an unfortunate pattern of idiots and puke in her life.

Tsubaki takes another sip of her green tea and pats Maka's leg. She intelligently keeps her questions about monkeys and their speech abilities to herself and decides to just chalk it up to Maka's lack of sleep. "I'm sorry, Maka-chan. But at least you're still helping people! It may not be on as grand a scale as you're hoping for, but the little things still count for something."

Maka blows a stray piece of unkempt hair out of her face before smiling despite herself at her soft-spoken friend. "I can always count on you to look at the upside in any situation, Tsubaki." She says.

"Otou-san always told me that pessimism breeds inaction. If we can't find any reason to carry on, nothing would ever get done." She stands to dispose of her dirty cup in the sink. "Sometimes when the things we want the most to happen don't work out the way we envisioned them, it can be discouraging and even make us want to quit. It's in these times that we must look for any little reason to keep going until we achieve what we want."

Maka quirks a brow, smiling. "Pretty sagely advice for – " She glances at the clock on their wall. " –six-thirty in the morning."

A loud clatter rings through the apartment as Tsubaki abruptly drops her cup of coffee, a look of sudden horror on her usually sweet face. "Six-thirty?" She squeaks, dashing towards her bedroom, all sagely calm cast to the wind. "I'm going to be late!"

Maka giggles at Tsubaki's sudden franticness. "Why are you rushing? You don't have to be at the school for another hour, right?"

"That's true usually," Tsubaki calls through her open bedroom door. "But today I have a teacher's meeting so I have to be there at seven!"

Maka fights the urge to flop back over onto the couch, because if she lies back down now she doesn't stand a chance of making it to her bed. She forces herself up from the tempting cushions as the now-dressed schoolteacher darts into the bathroom. She pads over and props herself up against the doorframe to watch Tsubaki brush her long raven locks. "So what's the meeting about?" She inquires.

"Parent-Teacher conferences start today. One of the guardians of my students apparently works late so he requested an early-morning appointment." She says, tying the silky tresses back into her signature ponytail. Satisfied with her appearance, Tsubaki slips past Maka in the doorway to retrieve her purse. "Since the majority of the appointments are later afternoon though, I'm afraid I won't be home in time for dinner tonight."

"That's okay, I'm probably going to sleep through it anyway."

Tsubaki's brow creases in concern. "Please try and eat something today."

"I will."

"Coffee doesn't count."

"It should."

"Please," Tsubaki pleads as she heads towards the door. "You need to eat healthier, Maka-chan. You're a doctor, after all." Maka sighs in defeat and then smiles.

"Okay, I promise I'll wake up to eat something other than instant noodles and coffee. Now go, you're gonna be late."

Tsubaki squeaks again and bolts out the door, wishing her friend a good day over her shoulder. Maka shakes her head with a small chuckle as she closes and locks the door behind her. Now speaking of appointments, she believes she's late for one with her bed.

* * *

_Author's note: some quick info:_

_-Cranial Laceration: fancy doctor talk for a cut on your head._

_-__Acromioplasty__: a surgical procedure where a portion of the acromion (__"a bony process on the scapula (shoulder blade), together with the coracoid process extending laterally over the shoulder joint") is removed to relieve the pain that is caused when the acromion rubs against the tendon._

_-__Rhinoplasty__: a surgical procedure that corrects and reconstructs the form, restores the functions, and aesthetically enhances the nose._

_-__Dojo__: literally translated to "place of the way". A Japanese institution where many different forms and techniques can be taught. Most commonly, dojos refer to martial arts studios and the institutions that teach them._

_-__ -Chan__: a Japanese honorific, typically reserved for close friends and small children._

_-Appendectomy: a surgical procedure that removes an inflamed appendix._

_-__Otou-san__: (Japanese) a respectful name for one's father._


End file.
